Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 120

by Neil Clarke

  I’m so happy! Math isn’t nearly as hard as they’re always saying it is—it’s actually pretty interesting.

  Entry #197

  A lot of people say that math gets harder after 6th grade. But I don’t think it’s hard at all, it’s just that the calculations have gotten more complex.

  Like yesterday, when we studied the Theorem of the Opposite and Adjacent: In a given right-angled triangle the sum of the two legs squared is equal to hypotenuse raised to s. S is an abbreviation for the natural constant of the Opposite and the Adjacent, which is approximately 2.013. Ancient mathematicians had already accurately calculated s to the 28th place over a thousand years ago!

  You don’t need to be so exact though, ‘cause 2.013 is good enough for most things. That’s what our teacher said.

  Still, it’s really tough to calculate the value of something raised to the power of 2.013 (or to find the square of 2.013). Since starting 6th grade every problem usually takes a couple of hours and I feel like most of that time is used for complex operations involving exponents.

  Sometimes I think about how much easier everything would be if s was equal to 2! That way you could find the answer to these problems in seconds, not hours.

  Entry #248

  “Practice making squares and finding roots until you know the operations like the back of your hand.” I remember my teacher saying this over and over when I was little, but I feel like I’m only just starting to understand what he meant.

  There probably isn’t one single lousy branch of science that that doesn’t use them. In equations for falling bodies, the inverse square of gravity to distance is 2.07; the inverse square of an electromagnetic field to distance 3.02; and energy is of course equal to mass times the speed of light raised to the power of 2.03 . . . it all makes me tired just thinking about it.

  It doesn’t matter how exciting or interesting a science may be, because in the end you’ll inevitably get stuck doing dull and tedious calculations.

  Entry #335

  Without meaning to, I’ve discovered something pretty weird.

  I really like making papercuts—it’s something I’ve enjoyed since I was a little kid. So yesterday, I took out a square piece of paper and started playing around with it. First, I cut a small square from the very center of the paper. That left me four right triangles. Originally I had been planning on trying to fit the pieces together into the shape of a spaceship, with the four triangles acting as wings. As I looked at the pieces of paper on the table, however, I was suddenly struck with a passing thought.

  If the area of the original square piece of paper I had started with was equal to all of the small pieces that were left over, and the area of a square was the product of one side squared . . . why did something seem wrong here?

  Writing out a rough equation, I did my best to simplify it, until I was left with this amazing conclusion:

  a2+b2=c2

  There’s no 2.013 after all! Just two!

  It’s a really weird result, I know, and pretty shocking too. But, I have to admit I’m kind of in love with how simple my formula is and my gut is telling me that this is the true form of the Theorem of the Opposite and the Adjacent.

  Entry #336

  Well, it looks like that was a waste of time.

  I went to meet my math teacher today to explain my formula. Hoping for the best, I waited for him to look as surprised as I had been, and then maybe say something like, “My word! It really is true!” I was pretty disappointed, though, cause he just laughed and shook his head.

  “Incorrect.”

  “What’s incorrect about it?”

  “Your formula for calculating the area is wrong,” he said, patting me on the head. After a pause, he said, “You’re a smart cookie—you’ve come up with a simple way to deduce the Theorem of the Opposite and the Adjacent. It’s too bad because—”

  “Isn’t area the product of length times width though?”

  “That’s just an approximation. While it’s true that introductory texts explain it this way, once you enter the higher grades you’ll find out that in addition to the length times width, there is an additional factor that must be applied to create the correct result. That’s the true formula for area!”

  He’s right, of course, I should have thought of this earlier. Since when have things ever been easy?

  So depressing. When I got home and saw the cut up pieces of paper on the table I didn’t waste any more time messing around with them.

  Entry #1129

  Soon I’ll be signing up for the higher academy, where I’ve decided I’ll apply to become an astronaut.

  I still remember when I was a teen all I wanted was to be a scientist. But when I think about science now, all I feel is, well, a headache. I’ve found scientific formulas to be, pretty much without exception, complex and tedious to complete—or to put it another way, they’re freaking irritating. But that’s the world we live in, built on the foundation of an irrational, aesthetically unpleasing constant. Sometimes I think that if God really exists, then he’s one lousy craftsman.

  Entry #2983

  My vessel has already left the belt system, a pioneering first in the history of my people! When my messages and survey data finally reach the home planet three months from now I can only imagine they’ll be filled with pride at my accomplishment.

  Meanwhile, I continue forward, seeking out places as yet unexplored by any who have come before.

  Entry #3012

  Something very strange has happened.

  Some days ago, a crack appeared in my vessel’s main cabin. The atmospheric sensor quickly found the leak in an out of the way corner. I carefully patched the crack, thinking that would be that.

  Since then, though, it’s been one non-stop emergency. It’s like my ship is being crushed, with compressions and fractures appearing all over the place. Fixing the cracks keeps me up at all hours, but none of it makes any sense. Where, in the vastness of space, is this mysterious pressure coming from to bear down upon my vessel?

  A number of sensors and engines in the craft have begun to malfunction as well, with obvious cracks appearing in the hardened alloys of the various components. Every day I fall asleep to a symphony of creaks and groans echoing out of some new, unknown corner of my vessel, as if I’m living in a haunted house. There’s absolutely no way for me to fall asleep without taking sedatives.

  Earlier today I discovered that even the gravitational sensors have begun to fail. When an asteroid of about thirty tons happened to pass by the nose of my ship I was completely unable to get the gravitational data supplied by the sensor to agree with the telemetric calculations of the ship’s computer.

  I really don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this.

  Entry #3028

  I think I’ve discovered the source of the problem.

  Having spent the last day combing through yesterday’s gravitational data, I found something strange. If the numbers provided are correct, the inverse square of gravity to distance should be 2.

  Using the principle of the interference on polarized light, I was able to measure the lengths of the three sides of a right triangle. The shortest leg opposite the hypotenuse was 3 units in length, to the adjacent leg’s 4 units. The hypotenuse, meanwhile, was 5 units long!

  Given an acceptable experimental margin of error, the hypotenuse was exactly 5 units in length, being neither slightly longer nor slightly shorter as one would have expected.

  Entry #3084

  I’ve become certain I won’t be able to keep my vessel together much longer.

  The whole ship is coming apart now. Even if I were to return to my home planet immediately there would be no way for me to land without killing myself.

  And it’s all because of the Theorem of the Opposite and the Adjacent—it’s true, a single formula is to blame for everything that’s happening. The great pieces of metal that shape the hull, the precise and exacting components of my instruments—they were all const
ructed and assembled according to the natural constant 2.013. But now even the natural laws are no longer what they once were.

  I’m not afraid—in all honesty, I’ve made peace with this whole mess. You might even say I’m a little happy. It’s how the Theorem of the Opposite and the Adjacent was meant to be all along, isn’t it?

  And now I’ve found my way into a more beautiful universe where I can my lay my head to rest, having arrived at long last . . .

  ***

  “I’m curious . . . How in the world did they come up with such a strange version of the Pythagorean theorem?” I asked, sighing as I set down the the printout of the translated journal.

  “Indeed. I suspect it was on account of wormhole K09,” Gu He replied, searching the database. “It just so happens that a medium-sized wormhole is located just outside their star system. Within the radius of its influence, space and time are slightly distorted.”

  “But are we really supposed to believe that they never suspected all of those so-called ‘natural constants’? Imagine, raising something to a bizarre number like the power of 2.013! It looks so funny!”

  “As a wise man once said, ‘Living as I do on Lushan mountain, truly, I know nothing of its appearance from afar!’” Gu He said, sighing. “We really shouldn’t try to judge their intelligence from our own perspective—who knows, human civilization on Earth probably developed under the influence of an even greater distortion in time and space! Doesn’t pi being 3.1416 strike you as equally odd?”

  Suddenly speechless, I had nothing to say.

  Originally published in Chinese in Micro SF, December 2014.

  Translated and published in partnership with Storycom.

  About the Author

  Liu Yang has a PhD in physics and is a professor at Xi’an University of Technology. Since his first short story in 2012, he has published over 30,000 words of short stories in magazines such as Sci-fi World, and ZUI Found, in addition to his 2015 short story collection A Perfect Doomsday. Additionally, Liu is a prolific author of sci-fi essays, with a regular column in Non-Exist.

  Toward the Luminous Towers

  Bogi Takács

  Liicha is singing an old song, his wheedly tenor not a match for the lush contralto of the original recording. And we shall soar, hand in hand, through the night sky . . . His voice grinds against the walls of the transporter, creates unwelcome resonances and echoes. Invisible fingernails scratching steel.

  Liicha is a kind person, the best I could hope for in a comrade-in-arms, but I can’t bear to listen to this. “Would you cut it out already?” I am snappy, aggravated, out of my element. He is a soldier—but I am a conscript.

  “Awww.” He stands up, stretches his pale, thick arms. “Is it time for the GS-10?”

  He is right, and I am resentful. Was it my behavior? Something in my tone of voice?

  He throws me the ampoule and I pull up the sleeve of my uniform, feed the ampoule into the port at the bend of my elbow. So many drugs—but this one is just to keep me awake, push me through the utter exhaustion brought on by sleepless days after sleepless nights.

  The mechanism hisses softly. I remove the ampoule, lean back in my chair, close my eyes. Soon it will be time to log in again, my turn again, because the war machine will never come to a halt. But first, the prescheduled meeting with Doctor Darankau. Where is she already?

  A tapping outside, unsteady hands fussing with the door. Liicha unlocks the latch, lets the doctor in. She grimaces and brushes hands against her face—her dark skin is stained with something lighter that looks like ash, underlining the folds and wrinkles of age.

  Liicha makes a drink, something sweet-smelling produced by his fungal container. Doctor Darankau accepts it, drains the small cup in a single gulp. We murmur greetings, make small talk.

  “Your schedule will be bumped up,” she says. “They will probably only tell you at the very last minute, but I thought you would want to know.”

  I lean forward. The muscles in my abdomen clench. How could I have an even tighter schedule? I am living on GS-10 and Liicha’s concoctions.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper. I don’t expect her to divulge classified information, but I know she probably will, otherwise she wouldn’t have brought up the topic. Liicha also leans closer.

  Doctor Darankau does not lower her voice. “The Graycoats are using some kind of targeted bioweapon, likely retroviral. Biotech is trying to reverse-engineer it, but so far without success. It targets combat controllers. People are dropping out at an alarming rate, incapacitated, dead. Soon we will have no one left to guide the army.”

  I feel deflated. If I die, then I won’t have to live in this endless, paradoxical tension-boredom-exhaustion state any longer. But my purpose here . . .

  Doctor Darankau interrupts my thoughts. “Frankly, you are the only controller in my service area who’s not showing symptoms already.”

  I didn’t know that, but it makes perfect sense: I’ve noticed people slow down, respond sluggishly, ping decreasing all over the network. I frown. “You think I might be immune? Because of my custom setup?”

  She rolls the empty cup around between her palms. “Probably yes. I have been wondering if it’s because you’re neuroatypical in just the right way for the targeting to pass you by. You don’t trigger the pattern matching.”

  “So they want me to work even harder, until my brain turns into mush anyway.” I shrug. “For the people, for victory.” It comes out even more cynical than intended. I genuinely want to serve. I genuinely want to protect. But I also deeply, desperately want to get out of this place, just one step behind the front lines, within tactical control range for every single piece of crap passing as military equipment.

  Doctor Darankau mutters something that can be interpreted as affirmative or as noncommittal, then cautiously says goodbye. The hatch clanks shut after her, and I put my back against a bulkhead, slide slowly to the floor. This war, I hate it all, and for a moment, I just let myself feel that rage before I push it down, below conscious awareness. If I were to give in, my own magic might teleport me out of harm’s way; an uncontrolled, spontaneous action, but one that would qualify as desertion nonetheless. I know someone who vanished one day, only to reappear in the hinterlands, and I don’t want to end up like her; she’d escaped only to be executed. If I can’t control my fury, it needs to go. And no one can control teleportation jumps, really. Our wars would look very different if we could. My muscles tighten with all the suppressed anger.

  I struggle to stand, while Liicha looks on with an expression halfway between weariness and pity. The night will be long still, and I will need to log in again.

  This is so different from my previous line of work. The public nets were infinitely more vast—the tactical systems feel constricted by comparison, walls closing in around me just like the steel and reinforced plastic of the transporter encases me. I am captive, mind and body. And we shall soar, hand in hand . . .

  Liicha straps me into my berth, his motions quick, firm, precise. He genuinely likes me. He feels sorry for me, and he shows it just as much as necessary; it is his job to take care of me and make sure I am a smoothly functioning component in the machine.

  Combat control is mostly just computation and awareness, not raw magical power. Unchallenging, uninteresting. I’m also not particularly good at it, but not bad either, and that’s all that counts when the other controllers’ minds are slowly winking out.

  Is the virus already in my bloodstream? Has Doctor Darankau passed it on, unknowingly, unwillingly? I fight a wave of paranoia.

  I must have grimaced, because Liicha whispers to me softly, puts a hand on my forehead. He is not magical in any sense, and we do not share our thoughts using technological means either. He is just attuned to me, after weeks upon months upon years in this rolling coffin.

  He connects cables and tubes, clicks clasps, tightens straps. Everything holds. I start the log-in process, and the power rushing through me is more like an unwel
come jolt rather than the sweeping tidal force of the public nets. I always wanted to be a librarian, I think, but then I am dropped in the middle of a combat situation and all extraneous thought is swept away.

  Drones, turrets, automated, semi-autonomous, if-it-were-autonomous-it-wouldn’t-need-me-really. The enemy is a mass of statistics, an algebra of flesh and blood. They have humans too, not in large measure, but someone needs to control the process. And as my neighbors in the net waver and fade, we are losing, and the Graycoats are winning.

  I run projections in the back of my mind, extrapolate the losses, and I know we will keep on fighting until just a few of our cells can hang on to dear life, but I also know there is no hope against this slow but steady attrition.

  Enfilade—defilade—I weave drones through enemy formations, twist and turn. Murder and kill, though I struggle not to think of it that way, and I will only think of it that way later, back safely in my own sensorium, staring at the inside of the armor plating and the assorted medico-technological clutter Liicha leaves around the transporter, ties down into place in the oddest locations.

  “This is not what magic is supposed to be for,” I mutter to him, feeling hollowed out by the logout process, alone in my mind again.

  “Magic is for protecting your people,” he whispers back, and I notice he doesn’t say the people.

  “Who are my people?” I ask him. I am a librarian. Who are my people?

  “I am your people,” he says, and this gets me, this merciless feeling that hooks into all my drives to do what needs to be done, to do what I’ve been built to do, a machine of ragged and worn-down flesh.

  I am a librarian, but some of the skills necessary to manage the public nets translate all too readily to control combat, and for the first time in my life, I find myself wondering about my training. Wondering about Aman Thien, first and foremost; their voice that accompanies me wherever I go.